Humor: Accident points to digital revelation

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I found out which is my most important finger, and it wasn’t the one I thought.

It took nearly slicing it off to gain this knowledge, and, to be honest, the epiphany wasn’t worth the blood loss.

Three women are responsible, by my count, though they point the finger of blame at me. They should be thankful they can point. I’m having difficulty doing so (as well as difficulty typing, so if there are any errors, such as leaving a key letter out of a word like “public,“ I have a valid excuse).

It started on Halloween, when my family traditionally gathers at my mom’s house to scare children. Some families have Thanksgiving, some have Christmas, we have Halloween and the festive scaring of the children.

My daughter decided this was the time – about eight minutes before the first trick-or-treaters were due – to carve the pumpkin my wife had hastily bought the night before because our insistent child suddenly decided we needed to carve a pumpkin and would not shut up about it.

I was attaching a fake buzzard to the mailbox when the pumpkin dilemma reared its ugly orange head.

“Mom promised we would carve this pumpkin today.“

“Your mom isn’t even off work yet and it’s too late to start. If you wanted to carve a pumpkin, you should have told us a few days ago.“

The response I wanted to hear was, “Yes, father, you are truly a wise man and I have much to learn from your counsel.“

Instead, she turned, walked into the house and soon emerged with my mother and a dull kitchen knife.

“Granny said she would help me.“

Of course, because Granny cannot say no to her granddaughter.

“Granny, can you take me to the video store to rent 13 movies we won’t return until the late fees equal the gross national income of Ecuador?“

“Yes.“

“Granny, can you drive to Georgia in a flat-bed truck to get me fresh peaches for a snack because I prefer them ever so slightly to canned peaches?“

“Yes.“

So, against my protests, they started carving the pumpkin, though carving isn’t an accurate description. This was a pre-teen and a woman in her 60s awkwardly stabbing a large orb “Psycho”-style with a dull kitchen knife.

No good could come of it. I had to intervene.

“Stop that! Let me do it before somebody cuts a finger off.“

And two minutes into what I intended to be the fastest pumpkin carving job in history, the knife, slick with pumpkin innards, slipped and nearly cut my right index finger off.

For a moment, I felt vindicated.

“See? See? That’s why you can’t carve a pumpkin at the last minute!“

Then, after significant blood loss, I felt woozy. Then, after a large bandage and a pain pill, I felt ready to lay some blame.

To my late-arriving wife: “You shouldn’t have bought that pumpkin.“

To my daughter: “You should have listened to what I told you.

To my mother: “You should have had a son with better carving skills.“

Over the next several days, I realized the importance of my right index finger.

It’s my mouse-clicking finger. (Surfing the Internet for supermodels has never been so painful.)

It’s my guitar-picking finger. (I’ve never been any good and, believe me, a large bandage doesn’t improve my technique.)

It’s my trigger finger. (If Osama bin Laden shows up at the house, I’ll just have to kill him with kindness – or a big stick.)

It’s my microwaving finger. (“Two –ouch! – minutes – ouch! – 30 – ouch! – seconds – ouch!)

It’s my scratching finger. (Let’s just not go there.)

So, painfully, I have learned which is my most important finger. And if anyone asks me to carve a last-minute pumpkin ever again, there’s a good chance they will get a look at my second most important finger.

Scott Hollifield is editor/general manager of The McDowell News in Marion, N.C. Contact him at P.O. Box 610, Marion, N.C. 28752 or e-mail .